


Kópaknon

by AraSigyrn



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Historic/Mythic!AU, Inspired by a tumblr anon, M/M, Selkie/Viking!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:26:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29272452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraSigyrn/pseuds/AraSigyrn
Summary: Inspired by research for another fic and finding souvenirs from Copenhagen.Frederik the Red rules a kingdom of the sea but what the sea takes, she might also give back.
Relationships: Frederik Andersen/Connor Brown
Comments: 11
Kudos: 55





	Kópaknon

The sun hangs red amid the clouds of smoke and Frederik's arms ache from the battle when Jack finds him cleaning the blood from his sword. They have carried the day, the jarl of the village dead with the best of his fighting men. There are fine new ships in the harbour already flying Frederik's hawk and rapidly filling with the spoils of their victory. Jack's eyes skim the bodies scattered around Frederik before he clears his throat. Frederik cleans the last of the blood from his sword and slides it into its scabbard as Jack bows his head.

"What news?"

"Jason says there is a storm coming," Jack says. "If we don't leave before the tide turns, we could be here for days."

"There's no danger to us here," Frederik scoffs.

"The full moon is tomorrow night," Jack says and when Frederik turns, Jack raises empty hands. "Seven years, my king."

"Gather the men," Frederik orders. "We sail at once."

"As you command," Jack bows again and leaves Frederik to look over the ruin of the village. All the plunder in the world does not disguise the fact that the one he hunts has escaped him again. Frederik brushes his finger over the haft of his axe, his victory turning to ash in his mouth. He bends to pull the charm from the dead jarl's throat before he sweeps his cloak over his shoulders and makes his way to the harbor. The wails of the survivors fill the air. His warriors are busy loading the last of their plunder and some of the women dare to plead for mercy. Frederik pauses with his boot on the rail of his ship. He looks at his men, raucous and triumphant.

"Burn it all," Frederik orders and there is a gleeful roar as his men run for torches. He looks at the horrified women. "Tell the Swede there is nowhere he can hide that I will not find him. Tell him I am coming."

They leave the village burning behind them and Frederik stands at the prow of his ship, brooding as the wind whips the foam from the tops of the waves. The mid-winter chill cuts through the furs and the oars creak. The men sing, still buoyed on their victory, and the red sails strain against the wind. Frederik inclines his head when they sing of his victories but there is no humour in his smile.

His kingdom stretches across the sea, his hall is filled with treasures worthy of the dragons of old and the bards sing of his victories wherever men can hear the waves on the shore. 

"What man could ask for more?" laughs the helmsman. Frederik's lip curls and his hand finds the chain around his neck. His free hand curls into a fist but Mitch silences the fool before Frederik is minded to throw him overboard.

"Beloved of the sea," his men call him. "Wave-kisser, Stormking who calls the tides to serve him."

Frederik could laugh, if he were still capable of laughter. They have no idea. Most of them came to him through battle. Zach, Mitch, Auston and Morgan know the truth. It is to their credit that they have never said how true those kennings are. The old stories are almost lost in the retellings. Before he took up axe and sword, Frederik lived a humble life. If not for the greed of another, he would live it still.

They sail through the night and the sun is already sinking when they finally see the beacon fires burning. The longships cut through the surf and horns sing out a royal welcome. Frederik is the first to disembark and he raises his voice to be heard.

"Light the fires! Fill the flagons! Let every man eat his fill! Let the bards sing of our victory!"

His men roar their approval, their weariness forgotten and Frederik leads them into his hall. The fires are lit and the hall fills with hungry men and music strikes up. There is food aplenty and Frederik takes a flagon from one of the servants and raises it high. "To victory!"

Another roar and every man drinks. Frederik drains the flagon and sets it aside. He eats sparingly, just enough to quiet his stomach and keep curious eyes from his plate. Every minute stretches like a hour and it seems that he has spent a lifetime listening to drunken bragging and braying laughter. Then Jack taps his elbow and Frederik sees that his men are full of food and cheer. They will not see him leave.

"Gods bless you with good fortune," Jack says. His smile is wistful. Six years, he's been Frederik's shield brother and his lover, when the mood took them. Frederik offers him half a smile in return. There was no deceit between them. Frederik never pretended that his heart was his to give. Jack will find other lovers, maybe a spouse if the gods smile on him. Frederik goes and Jack does not follow.

Frederik dares not hope for happiness. He will not jinx seven years of waiting. He leaves his finery behind; the stout wool cloak he dons is ragged at the edges and the rich blue colour is faded but Frederik remembers how proud Connor had been to present it to him. His smile had tasted sweet as honey and Frederik had worn it on every voyage after. There was no magic in it, Connor swore, but Frederik never felt the cold with it around him. Frederik steps past the guards and the sun is a sullen glow on the western horizon. The rain pours down and Frederik is soaked almost as soon as he sets foot outside. The path is muddy and his boots skid on the gravel.

He can barely see his hand in front of his face and Frederik's heart sinks. The sting of hailstones as the air gets colder makes him shiver and there is ice forming in his beard. A lesser man might have turned back. Frederik does not. His hope withers in his chest but he presses on past the battered old huts to the rocky beach beyond. The path is overgrown, wiry grass making for treacherous footing. The harbor is on the other side of the headland and Frederik knows the fearful among his people say the beach is cursed.

Once, Frederik would have said the beach was blessed. He'd been barely more than a boy the last time he'd come down this path, arms full of warm clothes and heart full of joy. The flowers fitting for a bridegroom had been long out of season but his mother had dyed and sewn scraps of fabric so Connor would have flowers despite the winter chill. It had been colder but the sky had been clear, all the stars shining like diamonds and the sea had been as smooth as glass.

His foot skids on a patch of ice and Frederik stumbles, his hands flying out to steady himself. He lands hard on the gravel and the snarling curse he looses is loud as a thunderclap. 

Too late, Frederik sees the pale throng huddled around a driftwood fire. His harsh words send them running back to the wind-tossed waves like a flock of frightened birds taking flight. Frederik sees the spray fly as bodies crash into the waves. There's a mad confusion and lightning flashes. Frederik's breath catches in his throat.

"Connor..." he rasps, clawing at the gravel.

The mottled pelt that wraps around his shoulders is almost invisible against the gathering dark but the dying gleam of the sun shows Connor's face. It takes the fire from his curls and his eyes are dark but Frederik would know him in pitch darkness. He hesitates, the sea-foam churning behind him.

"CONNOR!" Frederik trips and stumbles.

Connor flinches back and Frederik freezes with his hands outstretched. The clamour of voices has become a chorus of seal barks but Connor lingers. He's staring at Frederik with wide eyes.

"Connor," Frederik chokes and it is not the cold that makes his hands shake. Connor stares at him and there's nothing human in the way he tilts his head to watch Frederik like a seal about to plunge away from a hunter. Frederik takes a slow step forward. "Kaere. You know me."

Connor looks back at the sea but he doesn't move. He looks back at Frederik. There can't be ten paces between them but it might as well be ten leagues. The sea swirls around Connor's feet. He's less than a breath away from the water.

"Please," Frederik inches closer. "Connor."

Connor blinks at him. 

"Love," Frederik rasps. "Please, Connor."

There's a flicker, not strong enough to call recognition, but Connor frowns at him. Frederik eases another step forward and Connor tugs his pelt closer, leaning away from Frederik's out-stretched hands. Frederik drops his hands. He's so close that the spray is clinging to his eyelashes but Frederik barely dares to blink. He's so close that he can see the faded dots of Connor's freckles. It takes everything in him not to grab for Connor.

"Please," Frederik pleads.

Connor blinks and his brows furrow. He lifts a hand and his fingers are cold and pale as ice. He traces the edge of Frederik's beard and Frederik's hands curl into fists to keep from grabbing for him. Connor peers up at him, eyes searching his face and his fingers touch Frederik's cheek.

"...Freddie?" Connor says, barely loud enough to hear over the howl of the wind.

Frederik nods. Connor's frown melts into a shy smile and Frederik cannot help but smile back.

"Freddie," Connor says with certainty and Freddie can bear it no longer, he lunges for his beloved.

Connor's lips taste of salt and ice and Freddie crushes him against his chest with the force of his relief. Connor's still clinging to his pelt. Freddie doesn't try to pry his hands away. He holds fast, tightening his grip as Connor blinks up at him. He lifts Connor, pelt and all and Connor laughs. It's a quiet rusty sound but still familiar enough that Freddie feels it like a knife in his chest.

"You'll catch your death," he says and his voice cracks. 

Connor shivers as if he's only just noticed that the rain is turning to ice around them. He burrows closer to Freddie and Freddie chuckles. There's no bulk to Connor like this; all the mass of his seal-self shed with his pelt. He's not as delicate as he looks but he always felt the cold so sharply. He's petulant as a child denied a treat and Freddie has to kiss him again. Connor purrs into the kiss, reaching up to touch Freddie's face with his cold fingers.

"Let's get you out of this cold," Freddie says and this time, his voice is steady.

He doesn't know how long it takes to get back to his hall. He doesn't remember anything but Connor's weight in his arms, the silken feel of his pelt on Freddie's bare arms and the bubbling joy in his chest. The feast is over, drunken warriors sleep at their tables and the few guards let him pass unchallenged into his chambers.

The servants have built up the fire in the hearth and the heat hits them like a hammerblow when Freddie carries Connor over the threshold. He dismisses his lone servant with a gesture and locks the door behind them. When he turns back, Connor is looking down at the bed. The bed is freshly stuffed with down and the wood is polished brightly. The blanket spread atop the furs is ragged at the corner but Freddie has never let his servants breathe a word against it.

Connor traces the clumsy embroidery, a pattern of waves and fish, and he frowns at it.

"I...remember this..?"

"You made it," Freddie says and Connor turns to look at him. There's still more beast than man in the way he holds himself but Freddie sees the memory stirring. He keeps his place, quelling the urge to sweep Connor into his arms again. The hall, the fire, all of it is making Connor timid. Freddie didn't bring him here just to lose him now. He can be patient. He keeps his expression as gentle as he can.

"You were away," Connor says, half-questioning. "Auston needed your help, you said."

"He did," Freddie bites his tongue.

"There was a storm," Connor remembers slowly. "I could hear the sea calling so loudly that I dared not leave our house. So I asked Greta for a needle. She didn't think I'd finish it before your naming day."

"You did," Freddie says. "It was on our bed when I came home. You were so cross with me when we had to clean it the next morning."

That makes Connor laugh and he lets his pelt flap loose around his shoulders. Freddie's eyes fix on the long silvery scar that bisects his collarbone. Connor quiets and his fingers tighten on his pelt for a moment, like he's afraid, then he looks down to see the scar and his laughter dies completely. 

Freddie closes the distance between them. An inch suddenly feels like the breadth of the sea and Freddie cannot restrain himself any longer. He presses their foreheads together and his hand shakes as he traces the scar for the first time. Connor makes a soft sound and Freddie has to kiss him. Connor closes his eyes and leans up into the kiss. "It's all right. It doesn't hurt. Not anymore."

"I knew he'd hurt you," Freddie confesses. He has to close his own eyes at the memory. "He left the knife on the dock. I thought he'd killed you."

Connor shakes his head and Freddie forces his eyes open to see Connor, whole and safe. In his rooms, in his bed chamber where he belongs. Connor fits into his arms as if he were crafted by the gods to match him.

"I thought he'd burned you with the rest of our house," Freddie says against his lips. "I was mad with grief."

"I didn't want to leave," Connor catches his face in his hands. "Freddie. I never wanted..."

"I never thought you did," Freddie assures him and Connor smiles for him.

"I..." Connor's eyes are wet. "He had a ship. He said he'd throw me overboard."

The way the old wives tell the stories, a Selkie without their pelt drowns because the sea doesn't know them without it. Connor had told Freddie the truth on their wedding day; the sea loves her children but hers is a greedy love. A Selkie with their pelt can come up to the air and the land as they wish even if they only shed their pelt once every seven years. Without their pelt, a Selkie has no way to escape and the sea swallows them up to live in Ran's halls with his seven daughters and never come to land again.

"I thought," Connor tries to turn his face away, shoulders hunching. "I thought that if I took my pelt..."

"You could come back to me," Freddie finishes. "And you did."

"After seven years!"

"Did you think I would not wait for you?" Freddie cups his face so Connor cannot look away. "My heart, my own. Did you think I would not count the days? That anything in the nine realms would keep me from the beach after seven years of waiting?"

Connor bows his head and Freddie kisses him again.

"You are mine," he tells Connor and this time, he kisses him with intent. 

Connor lets Freddie press him down in the soft bed, finer than anything Freddie could offer him before. He keeps a hold of his pelt, like he's afraid Freddie will tear it away. Freddie kisses him again. He's not the feckless fool who sailed away without a thought for what it meant that every sailor for a hundred leagues spoke of Andersen's sea-wife. There are calluses on his hands from sword and axe instead of oar and rope. He is harder, crueler but he loves Connor too much to bring that darkness to their bed.

He remembers what it is to be gentle with his hands on Connor's tender skin. He relearns the span of Connor's shoulders, the places that make him gasp and shiver. He has fine scented oils by his bed instead of the crude oil they made together. Connor's body yields for him as sweetly as if they'd never been parted. His pretty pink blushes spread down from his face to his chest.

Connor remembers the words for 'please' and 'more' and chants Freddie's name like a prayer. There are new scars that Freddie memorizes with his fingers and tongue. A Selkie's life is still a hard one. He leaves his own marks scattered on pale skin; pink and bruised. He teases Connor, holds him on the edge of pleasure but plucks him back again and again until there are tears in Connor's eyes and all his wild nature is lost to lust and need.

Freddie pins his hands above his head, Connor's trembling need robbing him of the strength to fight and Freddie takes a dozen kisses as tribute before he presses in. Connor moans but his hands curl into fists around Freddie's fingers. Freddie draws it out until they're both half-mad and desperate.

Connor's release leaves him dazed and pliant and he barely has the strength to lift his arms to wrap around Freddie's neck when Freddie's own release leaves him gasping and boneless atop him. Freddie kisses him sweetly and Connor purrs again. He's let go of his pelt and Freddie rolls them over so Connor can sprawl against his chest. Connor yawns when Freddie reaches for a rag to clean them both, eyelashes fluttering ticklishly against Freddie's skin. He's half-asleep and Freddie strokes a hand down his back, humming soothingly until that half becomes a whole.

Freddie quiets by degrees and Connor does not stir. He bends to kiss Connor's forehead and Connor does not stir. He runs his hand down the curve of Connor's back and Connor does not stir. Freddie breathes out and the only sound is Connor's steady breathing and the crackle of the fire. It takes all his will to rise, easing Connor down and sliding out from under him.

He catches a corner of Connor's pelt and draws it off the bed. It is splendid in the flickering firelight, worth its weight in gold to a furrier. It's worth far more if one knows and Freddie folds it carefully. He crosses to the door and Muzzin is waiting, heavy-eyed and reeking of ale. Muzzin takes the pelt without commenting on Freddie's nakedness. He just looks down at the pelt, confused, then back up.

"Lock it away," Freddie says. "Carefully."

"As you command," Muzzin bows and gathers it against his chest. He slips away down the empty hallways. There is a chest, bound in steel and brass, in Freddie's treasury behind a dozen doors and half a hundred guards. Freddie made it with his own hand and the only key that will open it, once Muzzin closes it on Connor's pelt, is on the chain around Freddie's neck.

Freddie locks the door again behind him. Connor will be weak for a couple of days, adjusting. The sea will call him as strongly as she can.

Let the sea call.

Freddie has not waited seven years to let Connor slip through his fingers. He'll keep his husband's pelt soft and safe and he'll keep his husband safe and happy in his bed. He'll hunt that damned Swede down and nail _his_ hide to the prow of his ship as a warning. No-one will take Connor from him again.

Freddie will make sure of it.


End file.
